


The Storm of the Century

by a_xmasmurder



Series: OctoJohn Adventures [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blue-ringed octopus, Cecealia, Gen, I've lost my mind, M/M, Not so little anymore, OctoJohn, PTSD, Pirate Sherlock, The Dangers of Being Different, mythical creatures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trouble on the high seas. Sherlock Holmes, the Greatest Pirate Ever to Live, is thrown overboard to his death...except death doesn't visit him beneath the waves. When he wakes, he finds something he'd lost years before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storm of the Century

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear, it's happened again. I've lost my mind, it's gone and hooked up with Elvis, they are getting married in Tahiti.
> 
> More Octo!John.
> 
> They are older, not quite as old as they are in the series, but let's say, late twenties to early thirties.

Sherlock picked himself off the floor of his cupboard of a room, the one he shared with Anderson, bloody idiot, and shook his head to clear the cobwebs - “WHOA!” The ship rolled beneath him again, and he went flying in the opposite direction, slamming into the wall and flopping onto his tiny cot. He groaned and swatted at the darkened oil lamp above his head. “Damn this storm.” He rolled to the floor and found his feet again, only to lurch out of his cabin as if he were hitting the grog a bit too hard again. The sight out in the bowels of the Hudson wasn’t much better. Men were knocking into the hull, the mast, the cargo, everything. It was bedlam, chaos, and a smattering of insanity. Sherlock shook his head as the younger men staggered and shouted and tried to secure their ill-gotten gains, and pulled his way to the stairs leading up to the main deck. Cold seawater made the old wood slick, making the trek upwards a chore, and the spray of water cascading down at every heavy wave smacked him in the face, burning his eyes. Sherlock sputtered out the rank water and finally popped his head above the floor planks, freezing in awe of the hell around the ship.

Someone (he was willing to bet it was Anderson) forgot to mention they’d be sailing straight into the eye of a hurricane on the way to Tortuga.

And boy, was it a _hurricane_. Around them, lighting slashed the sky and exploded with deafening cracks. The clouds boiled and swirled and dumped gallons of rain, rain that the howling winds blew sideways, rain that hurt when it hit the skin. Above them, in the crow’s nest, poor Toby kept watch for land. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. Sometimes, his brother could be the dumbest man alive, for all of his brilliance. How the hell were they supposed to see land in this? He shielded his eyes from the worst of the spray and debated calling the boy down from his precarious perch, but the ship lurched again and he slipped on the wet planking. As he fell, another wave slammed into the beleaguered ship, and it jumped. For a moment, Sherlock was in midair and still moving towards the railing, and he had a second to run calculations in his head that added up to him either slamming into the railing and knocking himself unconscious or going over the side and into the roiling and angry seas below. The instant before he hit, he realised he was going to do both, and he didn’t even have time to shout a warning before it happened. His head cracked against the sturdy rail, and everything went black.

  
  
  


Cold. And warm.

Strange sensation, being both cold and warm.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wanted to open his eyes. He didn’t actually believe most of the sailor’s tales of Davy Jones or underwater graves or serving for eternity on the Flying Dutchman, though every sailor with a mouth and a bottle of rotgut rum would say that ‘aye, I’ve seen her on the cold dark nights, sailing the seas and bringin’ naught but death and woe to all who clap eyes on ‘er’. But if he opened his eyes, he’d be sealing his fate, for certain, and he didn’t want to do that.

But he was cold. And warm. And a bit scratchy to boot.

He opened his eyes and saw tan everything. Everywhere. Tan.

Sand.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, not willing to believe that...wait. Sand. _Sand!_ His eyes flew back open, and he tried to push up onto his knees because he was face down in SAND. Heavens above, he’d lived! He was on land! Who knew how it happened, but he was alive! Glorious day, happy day, he’d survived. He flailed his arms, realising that they weren’t quite working. At least, they didn’t want to work. They felt like lead weights attached to his torso. He experimented with flopping them against the wet sand beneath his prone body, then kicked his legs. He heard splashing, and nodded. “So that’s why I’m cold and warm. My legs are in the water, and my upper half is in the sun. Perfect.” He muttered some more to himself, trying to get the hoarse scratchiness out of his throat. Well, that was to be expected - he’d survived a hurricane in the water, nearly drowning and now was laying out in the open on a beach of some island or such, with the sun beating down on him for who knows how long…

Finally, he worked feeling back into his extremities, and pushed up to his knees. He still had his sidearm, useless as it was surely going to be, what with the powder soaking up salt water and the action most likely gummed up with salt and sand. He had his sword, and he had his dagger. He patted himself down, searching for injury, and winced. Everything hurt. Bad. He looked down at where he was pressing his hand to his belly, expecting to see bloody intestines...oh. Well. He held up his right hand, which had swelled and bruised quite a bit. “That explains it. I’m an imbecile. I’m patting myself down with a broken hand, of course everything is going to hurt.” He huffed out a breath, then sneezed heartily. “And I’m probably plagued by now. Cold, and warm. Idiot.” He rolled his head on his shoulders, wincing at the grating of his neck...and his whole world skated to the left. He froze, and his vision swam worryingly. His stomach flipped as vertigo swept him away, and he closed his eyes. Everything still spun in his head, and he couldn’t stop himself from being sick over the sand. Not much more came up than bile and the bit of bread he had before the warning call of the storm brewing. Wracked by dry heaving, Sherlock gripped a fistful of sand with his good left hand and pulled air into his burning lungs. After what seemed to be a lifetime and a half, his world careened to a halt and he collapsed to the warmth of the sand, gasping for air and cursing his luck. He remembered hitting the railing now. He most likely had a head injury, which did not bode well for his survival alone here on this damned beach. If he couldn’t move soon, he was going to bake. He opened his eyes a tad, just enough to - “Holy mother of GOD!”

A face was staring at him.

Despite his body’s adamant and stark disapproval of movement, Sherlock scrambled backwards, splashing into the tidal wash. His head and hand screamed at him, and so did the person whose face he’d seen.

“No, don’t move, you’ve got a massive knot on your head, you’re injured, don’t move!”

Sherlock panted in agony and distress, planted on his arse in the shallows. “State your name and business, stranger, or I’ll have your head!” Of course, the threat could be more believable if his head wasn’t a damned child’s top. Once more, the nausea smacked into him like a rogue wave, and he was heaving out what was left in his stomach into the waters in front of him. The stranger moved to his side immediately, and Sherlock took a swipe at him with his left hand. Instinctively, he’d grabbed a weapon off his belt, but of course it would have to be the sword, which got caught in its scabbard and was duly blocked and pressed back in by the strange man.

“Now, now, I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. Please let me help you, I’m good at medicines. I’ve read books. Let me help you. Please.”

The man’s hands rubbed Sherlock’s back, gentling him, and he continued to speak soothingly at Sherlock, though Sherlock wasn’t quite sure the man was speaking the Queen’s English anymore. His vision and body failed him, and he collapsed back into darkness once more.

  
  
  
  


This time, when Sherlock woke up, he felt dry. Dry cloth beneath his head, dry cloth covering him, and dry air around him. Dry, cool air. He opened his eyes, and regretted that decision immediately as another bout of nausea, weaker than before, rolled through him. He swallowed against the burn of bile in his throat and turned over carefully. Immediately, the nausea worsened, but before he slammed his eyes shut against it he saw he was in a large cavern.

“Don’t move, you dolt. You have a bad head injury.” It was the same voice as before, gentle and kind, and Sherlock relaxed into the coverings over him. He focused on breathing for a few minutes, feeling very grateful that he was still able to do so. The ill feeling abated, and he stayed still and listened. From somewhere behind him, he could hear stone and metal clinking together and the crackle of a small fire. He could smell the smoke, and he could also smell something cooking. This close to the sea - and they had to be close, since he could still hear the tide rolling against the shoreline - it would have to be fish of some sort. He spotted his breeches and shirt drying in a corner lit by three oil lamps. His weapons and satchel leaned up against the same rock that his clothing was on. Movement against the wall of the cavern caught his eye, and he stared at the dancing shadows. There was only one silhouette of a person, most likely the man who had spoken, the man who’d saved Sherlock’s life. Sherlock swallowed and chanced his voice.

“You saved me.”

The clinking stopped. “Of course.”

“Why?”

A long moment of silence, then the noise started up again. “Well, why not? You washed up on the shore just before the storm wheeled away from land. I had to wait until the sea calmed before coming to see if you were still breathing. You needed help.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“That’s enough of a reason for me, good sir.”

The man obviously could speak the Queen’s English, and Sherlock smirked against the cloth under his head. “Silly. I could kill you.”

“Not right now. Right now, you can barely move.”

Sherlock grunted unhappily - the man was mocking him. “I’ll have you know that I’m just biding my time, stranger.” He huffed out a breath. “I’m your prisoner.” He scowled against the cloth. “No, not prisoner. You don’t take prisoners. You aren’t aboriginal, unless you were taken away and given an education. You might be local, but I doubt it. No, you are an educated man and not a savage.” Sherlock racked his brain for a face to put to the voice, and remembered tanned skin...no. Not tanned. Well, yes, _tanned_ but not...tanned. The man’s skin looked mottled, as if it didn’t quite know which colour it wanted to be. Brownish, tannish, paleish. He also remembered a shock of sun-bleached blond hair and bright blue...eyes… Something niggled at his memory, something he knew was important, very important, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it…”No, you are safe. Well, safe. Possibly. What is your name, if you have one? Something boring, like Nicholas or Brian or -”

“My name, if you’d let me say it, is John.”

Oh.

Sherlock turned in the bedroll entirely too fast, and his head screamed holy Mary at him. His stomach lurched, and Sherlock gagged, groaning in agony. In a moment, the man - _John, my John, it had to be, my little John_ \- was at his side with a stone basin, and Sherlock gagged again and threw up bile and water. John cooed at him, and Sherlock reached out and grabbed for - _yes, yes there’s a tentacle where his leg is supposed to be oh god, I’ve found him once again!_ Once his stomach settled again, Sherlock hummed happily and stroked John’s tentacle. “Oh, thank you, thank you…” he murmured, all fight gone from his exhausted body and mind. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  
  
  


Movement roused Sherlock from his slumber, and he opened one eye. The oil lamps were dampened, and the fire was nothing more than embers, but the cavern was bright with morning light. He blinked and yawned, glad to finally be rid of that crippling illness. His belly ached fiercely from being sick. He rubbed at the skin absently as he took stock of his surroundings in the new light. There was a berth for a small rowboat, complete with rope, in the far corner where a tidal pool was sunk into the rock. The area where he and John were was covered in tapestry and carpeting. Metal vases and a wooden chest stood along the curved walls. Pillows, both ornate ones and plain ones, were strewn haphazardly around the area. A cooking area was off to one side of the cavern, and that was where the fire had been built last night.

The pool rippled, catching Sherlock’s attention, and he sat up slowly and watched as John emerged from the water, a brace of fish over his shoulder. In the morning light, Sherlock could paint a better picture of his childhood discovery - and the only one he could have ever called ‘friend’. As John tossed the fish close to the large cast iron pot next to the fire and lifted himself out of the water, Sherlock watched. Lean muscle rippled beneath the chameleon skin, strong from years of swimming and...fighting, Sherlock noticed with a little distress as the scars of a hard life at sea made themselves known. The blue rings that signified that John was a hybrid of Hapalochlaena lunulata crawled halfway up his torso and faded around his pectoral muscles. The mottled nature of his skin remained throughout, though his shoulders and torso were much tanner than the rest of him. Sherlock leaned forward, ignoring the twinge in his belly muscles, and looked closer as John wriggled-hopped-slid across the slick rock. His tentacles were heavy, strong and scarred like the rest of him. One of them was a bit shorter and had a very distinct scar on it - the teeth marks of a shark. Sherlock sucked in a breath and blinked hard. Sharks were the scourges of the ocean, alongside enemy pirates, the Royal Navy, and scurvy. John turned his head and smiled warmly at Sherlock, and Sherlock finally looked John in the face for the first time since he’d been found on the sand. The bright inquisitiveness of John’s blue eyes was gone, replaced with a world-weary but satisfied glow. The look of a survivor.

Sherlock smiled back. “Do you remember me?”

The skin between John’s brows crinkled together, and Sherlock decided right then that it was his favourite expression on the man-octopus. John pressed his lips together, and Sherlock had to change his mind. Then the very tip of a pink tongue slipped out and wet those lips, and Sherlock just gave up and decided that John’s face was his favourite face ever. “Um...I’m...sorry, but -”

“Oh, no matter, you’ve had a very busy life, haven’t you? Civil war between cecealia? Mermaid attack? Definitely a shark, possibly even more predators. Who knows?” Sherlock grinned, too elated that right here, in front of him, was his friend, his only friend, and they’d found each other over years and kilometers apart. “Sherlock Holmes, the Greatest Pirate Ever to Live, at your service, dear John.” Sherlock mimed a grandiose bow, and John barked a delighted laugh and clapped his hands together in joy.

“Oh, my word! Oh, this...oh, Sherlock! How you’ve grown!” John grinned and slid forward, until he reached the carpeted area, then rose up on seven legs, the eighth one pulling up off the ground and tucking itself around his waist. In this position, John walked over to Sherlock’s side and settled down next to him. “This is...I should have recognised you, but…” John’s eyelids fluttered, and Sherlock peered at him. A very faint scar brushed his left brow and disappeared in the straw-coloured hair at his temple.

“That’s why you are so worried about my head,” Sherlock breathed. “What happened?”

John pressed his lips together. “I was younger. Still a kid. I...I left the safety of the pool because I thought I recognised your ship.”

“The Hudson.”

“Yes.” John’s features turned dark. “It wasn’t. The men aboard, they threw things at me. Heavy things. I couldn’t duck in time, and I was knocked unconscious.” He swallowed. “I don’t know how I survived, but I did. After that...I hid every time a ship came near.”

Sherlock scowled. “I don’t blame you at all. And that would possibly explain why I could never find you when we traveled that route.”

John nodded. “Probably. After a while, I had to leave. I couldn’t be afraid forever, and I wanted to see things. So I left.”

“I was wondering. Blue-ringed octopi usually only occupy the larger ocean.”

John smiled. “It took me quite a few years to find this spot.”

“You saw a bit of trouble, too.”

The smile widened into a grin. John nodded again. “Enough for a lifetime.”

Sherlock reached out and ran a hand over the shortened tentacle. “I was under the assumption that you can regrow your...arms?”

“I can. But I was very sick after that shark attacked me. I wasn’t used to the water, and I almost died. But if all that came of that adventure is a stunted tentacle, then I think I’m doing good.” John sighed and sat back a bit. “Do you think you can eat? You were very sick last night.”

Sherlock waved a hand at John. “I...don’t eat that much. I’m fine.”

John’s brow rose, and Sherlock realised that might be his favourite expression. “Obviously, considering you are barely more than a eelfish, you barely eat.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“You are eating. You lost a lot of water and nutrients, and you couldn’t even keep down a bit of bread last night. You. Are. Eating.” John shoved up on his tentacles again, and moved off to where he left the fish. “Fish soup. It’s good, I promise.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine. I’ll eat. Just to appease you so you don’t strangle me in my sleep.” He rolled his shoulder, and finally seemed to realise that his hand was swathed in bandages.”You...wrapped my hand.”

“Oh. Yeah.” John looked up from throwing whole fish into the pot. “There’s a couple broken bones. You might have problems with it for the rest of your life. I’m sorry there wasn’t more I could do.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’ll have what you’re having, then.”

John looked confused for a moment, then his own face broke open in a grin wide enough to berth the HMS Edinburgh. “Alright.”

 


End file.
